Blue moon
by flying cat
Summary: Nothing to do with the song. HouseCuddy general musing on the life of a single woman. SMUT with decidedly adult themes. You've been warned. First fic in a while... I guess that's another warning of sorts... look out for cobwebs


It was a concrete fact that she had come to accept as an unfortunate part of her reality. For as much as her intelligence and fierce ambition had brought her success, recognition and respect, it was essentially the source of her current solitude. If you were to ask her though, she would smile politely, offering the standard prepared response, 'It's more by choice than anything. I really don't have the time for a partner at the moment.' In all truth that assertion was crap. Little more than an excuse to discourage further questions, and in part an exercise in convincing herself that she was in fact single by choice and not design. God knows she had tried, but rarely did she find a man who just seemed to fit; and when she happened to stumble across those rare and wonderful individuals they were generally married or otherwise occupied, much to her disdain.

If she were to approach the situation with the same pragmatism and clinical objectivity with which she undertook every other dilemma life presented her with, she would admit in an instant that with every completed qualification, every promotion and every new office, the population of men within which she was happy to interact contracted significantly. The vast majority of men she encountered with on a daily basis were frightened of her, and those who weren't generally lacked the intelligence or self-awareness to know better.

Her high school English teacher had whispered to her in passing as she strode from class for the final time, 'Never date a man less intelligent than you, regardless of how nice he is to look at.' And how true it was, for her youth was punctuated with so many briefly frustrating liaisons with beautiful men that had been entirely fruitless, regardless of how good the sex was, or how superficially satisfying the accompanying bragging rights were. However as she got older, so did the men with which she interacted; and older men certainly held ground over their younger counterparts. But adhering to an oft-vaunted stereotype, she discovered in time that powerful, charismatic, intelligent older men rarely kept one female partner. She found herself falling for a superior once, but buried her feelings under a stack of paperwork and additional responsibility as professional success, rather than physical satisfaction was what she craved.

And as she sat there now, every day behind her heavy, expensive mahogany desk overseeing operations from the summit of the country's most innovative teaching hospital, her hospital; the satisfaction she received from doing her job almost compensated for the fact that every so often, when she had the time to pause and reflect, she felt dreadfully alone. She had discovered of recent that the type of men who seemed to find her attractive wanted to be dominated by her, offering themselves up in an unfortunately submissive, almost feminine manner.

Control is an intriguing concept. Without it she felt like she was losing grip on reality, her very existence just beyond her grasp. Yet in the bedroom… She loved a good fight or an argument, but it was the battle of matching wills that thrilled her, not the quiet, almost luxurious submission of her recent partners that had enraged her enough to inadvertently give them what they were looking for. She wanted someone to test her strength against in every sense, an equal. Someone who refused to agree simply for the sake of being polite, someone who was capable of controlling her…

Every day, striding through the hospital, carrying a hostile, defiant air that was the product of years of negative life experience and an expensive education, he challenged her, pushed her and infuriated her. He didn't need to control her, didn't want too. The game, the conflict, the entire process that surrounded their interaction was far too enjoyable. And he saw in her a worthy adversary, an equal, an arbiter and an auxiliary moral compass for the occasions on which his deserted him. She doesn't want to think about him, but she does; their lives far too entwined now with a history too rich to ignore. So often now it occurs to her that it would be so easy to go to him, driven by the thought that he would give her precisely what she needed, but she dispels the notion as dangerous, unprofessional and potentially painful in the long run, citing the fact that she knew him far too well. Regardless of how well she knew him, he always retained an innate ability to surprise her, which was simultaneously horrifying, frightening and somewhat satisfying, although she would never consciously admit to the latter…

On warm nights, late in summer with a gentle easterly wind dancing through her garden she would leave her bedroom window open as she prepared for bed. For a few moments she would indulge in one of life's simplest pleasures, allowing the cool breeze floating through the room to caress her bare skin as she undressed and showered. The realities of open windows never really occurred to her; her previous dwelling saw her existing some 15 stories from the ground where open windows were part of the lifestyle rather than a luxury enjoyed by previous generations.

This particular night was no different. She undressed, neatly re-hanging her suit, and absently tossing her undergarments into the laundry basket before wafting through into her bathroom, head as light as the gentle caress of the easterly wind on her skin as she slid into the shower. Luxuriating under the pleasantly warm spray, she languidly soaped her body, eyes closed as she cleansed herself of an entire day of sweat and frustration. She emerged from the shower relaxed and somewhat sedated, absently towel drying her hair, she elected to leave the drying process to the elements in spite of the fact is would be nightmarish in the morning. Drifting out of the bathroom and into her bedroom she let the towel fall to the floor, the breeze sliding across her skin in its place, stealing the few remaining droplets of water that beaded on her skin as she retrieved a thin silk nightgown from a drawer. She padded over and into her closet, absently pulling on the nightgown, silk slipping over smooth skin as she leisurely pondered her choice of attire for the next morning.

Windows were a terrific metaphor for both art and life, and he smiled as the thought occurred to him as he watched her casually traverse her living space in various states of undress. Here he was witnessing life, his own ideal version of domesticity, save for the 36 supermodels he would employ as his personal handmaidens. Fantasies aside, this woman, this beautiful, complex woman was art in his eyes when viewed through a window, albeit an open one; the entire scene framed by white painted hardwood for his own personal viewing pleasure. He hadn't come here with the intention to assume the role of the voyeur; that was merely a pleasant consequence. Regardless of that, for some reason he could no longer remember why he was standing in her backyard watching her with growing interest through her open window.

She stood inside her closet, consumed with her own slowly wheeling thoughts as she pawed her way absently through garments, passing time. It was a beautiful night, an old moon hanging low in a cloudless sky with that glorious breeze… She smoothed a palm down the side of her stomach; silk sliding across skin, thoughts shifting slightly. There was a department heads meeting tomorrow, he would be there, seemingly against his will, secretly relishing the opportunity to transform the afternoon into his own private puppet show. The prospect was less than thrilling, she needed to dress for control, a police uniform was beginning to seem like a good idea…

He watched her slip the flimsy silk nightgown she had selected over her head as she wandered into her closet. He held his breath, secretly hoping she wasn't going to return wearing ski-gear or come rushing at the window wielding a hockey stick. After a minute or so he craned his head in through the window, hoping to catch sight of her, a thousand images from a thousand ludicrous films flashed through his mind as he wondered what she was doing in her closet. That terrific creamy skin, bathed in lamplight as she wafted almost ethereally around the room drifted back into his thoughts, and in an instant he envied the silk nightgown she was wearing and the breeze that skated in through her window. He slowly edged the window up further, careful not to make a sound, and in a single swift movement hoisted himself up and into the room.

Slowly working her way through her closet as her mind danced over innumerable possibilities and span scenarios, mentally her guard was down, and she thought of him. She wondered how he would taste, how his body would feel against hers. The ketamine had afforded him a degree of mobility she had only witnessed in a previous life, and she enjoyed the fluid, rhythmic manner in which he moved. He was a runner, an athlete in a previous existence, a musician throughout. She recalled the sight of him almost dancing down the corridor to her office that morning, rolling toward her with consummate ease in time to some inaudible beat, she paused for a second to ponder whether he would fuck her in time to the music inside his head. She wondered how it would happen, how they would find themselves in that situation, attempting to avoid all of the trite office clichés and what have you. Pragmatism shone through in an instant and she came to the abrupt conclusion that the only plausible scenario involved a considerable amount of alcohol and a bad week. Yes, he would have to make the first move, she would never contemplate it.

He crept slowly across to the opposite wall, new running shoes ensuring he travelled in complete silence. Catching sight of her absently flicking through her clothes he paused, watching her intently as she ceased inspecting her cache of suits and paused just inside the doorway, staring into space.

In her dreams sometimes a man with no face and no name would materialise, uninvited but not unwelcome. He would pin her arms above her head and take her ruthlessly; in reality it shocked her, and she hated the fact that she woke up wet and breathless every time, desperately pawing in the darkness for a figure that wasn't there.

He watched as her hand slid idly down the length of her stomach in a slow, sensual stroke, his breathing deepened. On two legs he had regained the physical potency he thought he had lost so long ago. She shifted into the doorway of the closet, propping an arm against it to gaze out the window at the wind dancing through the trees, the peculiarly wistful expression on her face a stark change from the generally unimpressed face he was greeted with. There was a strange tranquillity about her when she was lost in her own mind, thoughts removed from responsibility and protocol, but it was the world-weary shadow that crossed her eyes in the lamp light that reminded him he was watching the same woman who attempted to rule him with an iron fist 8 hours a day. She shifted against the doorframe, silk sliding across her hips as the light played across her perfectly curved form. The thrill of being caught by her had dissipated as he found himself lots in this bizarre tableaux that he had created. She craned her neck upward in a leisurely stretch, muscle and sinew shifting below her exposed skin in the lamplight. He stifled a groan, primed by what he had previously seen he began to move forward again.

She yawned, thoughts returning to a reality of long days and early mornings, late meetings, politics and bureaucratic nonsense. There was medicine in there too somewhere, a smile creeping across her face as she recalled the bigger picture. Her head dropped to the floor, propped against a lean forearm she laughed to herself, but when her eyes travelled along the carpet she saw a second shadow behind her own. Her breath caught in her throat and she stiffened, glancing in alarm at the open window. Then behind her, the shadow shifted closer. Her heart rate doubled, hairs raised on her arms as she mentally sought an escape. She inhaled sharply; catching a hint of some expensive cologne that she could never quite place that was familiar in an instant. The shadow shifted closer still, she could feel hot breath on the bare skin of her neck, smelling sweat now intermingling with cologne. A final forward motion and she could feel a body pressed to hers, keeping her there; her fear turning to wordless, breathless anticipation as she recognised the scent; the aroma of inappropriate t-shirts, of vitriolic defiance and administrative nightmares, the odour of incomplete paperwork and unauthorised procedures.

"House." She breathed. An acknowledgement more than a question as she pushed back against him, ensuring he wasn't a figment of her imagination.

"Put your hands above your head." He growled, stubble grazing her ear as he dragged his nose down the length of her neck, drinking in the scent of floral soap that emanated from her skin.

Slowly she complied, stretching her arms up above her head and settling her hands to grip either side of the doorframe. His hands joined hers, tracing the topography of her body, slender wrists down lean forearms… He began to gently nuzzle her ear, hands passing elbows, then triceps, his touch lightened as his fingers grazed the fabric of her nightgown at her sides, before lightly dancing down her thighs, then knees right the way to her ankles. The second he bent down she missed his presence behind her, his stubble tickling her neck and breath in her ear.

He knelt behind her, absently tracing the veins and metatarsals across the top of her foot. With a single deep breath he caught the scent of something far more alluring than floral soap and summer evenings. Expectation. He stood quickly, hands sweeping upward in a single powerful motion, finding their place across her stomach under her nightgown.

She gasped at the sudden shift, clinging to the doorframe as his fingers splayed across her skin, one possessively wrapped across her stomach, the other firmly needing a breast as he kissed her neck with an intensity that simultaneously alarmed and excited her. His hand left her stomach, shifting quickly to grip her chin, tilting her head up at a somewhat awkward angle; and she saw him for the first time, hair matted with sweat from the run he had just taken, wild light flickering through dark eyes as he stared down at her.

It was a rough, deep kiss. He couldn't remember the last time he had kissed a woman with that much ferocity before, likewise he couldn't remember the last time he had taken a woman standing up. Perhaps it was an act of compensation for six long years of forced inactivity, or one of venting frustration, he didn't know or care. Her mouth opened under his and his hand splayed around the back of her head, tangling through damp hair as he began to grind against her.

She gripped the doorframe, as they moved in unison, his hands and mouth moving in perfect time with the rest of his body. He gripped her tightly, mouthing at the sides and back of her neck, encouraged by her breathless gasps as she ground her ass back against him. One of his hands shifted down to firmly cup the delicate mound of curls beneath her nightgown, his palm offering just enough pressure as she pushed down against it.

Without breaking rhythm, his other hand left her chest, slipping down her back and over the gentle curve of her ass before leaving her body momentarily as he freed himself from the loose pair of soccer shorts he had elected to run in. Feeling his cock jut against her ass she shifted a hand from the doorframe, only to have him pin it back above her head in a single swift movement.

"I said…" He growled into her ear, voice barely above a whisper. "Hands above your head." His hand quickly shifting back down the length of her arms, one slipping under her nightgown, gathering it up in the process as he wrapped it across her stomach, the other disappeared behind her.

He gripped himself firmly, pushing his thick, round head down the length of her cleft, heat and damp coating him as he gave her hot little nub a nudge for good measure. She shifted, gripping the doorframe, forearms parallel with the woodwork, ass tilted up waiting for him.

In one single, almost painfully deep stroke he was inside her, dragging a base, animal groan from between her lips. He began to move, again in the same rhythm, one arm tight across her stomach, and a single finger stoking her fire with tight, constant circles as they moved.

She gripped the doorframe white-knuckled as they fucked, every one of his movements perfectly synchronized, right down to his breathing, and she could do nothing more than hold on and move with him. Whether it was the initial shock of his presence, the perfect, idiosyncratic rhythm of his body or her own profound lack of control, she found herself close to the edge, breathing ragged as sweat beaded on her skin. When she came she swore saw stars and heard music, the tempo marking his final thrusts, building to a shockingly good crescendo. And in the aftermath they held position in the doorway momentarily, silhouetted by the single light in the closet as they reconnected with reality.

"You and I both know that this never happened." He breathed.

"In a week's time you'll probably be limping again." She replied, regretting the instant the words left her mouth.

"Exactly." He sighed, slipping out of her to lean back against the other side of the doorframe.

She slowly turned to face him, he looked absurdly satisfied, hair dishevelled, cock hanging flaccid above the lowered waistband of his shorts. He caught her gaze and put himself away hastily.

"Have you seen the moon?" She asked.

"Yep. It's been there as long as I can remember."

"No, tonight."

He leant into the room and gazed out the window. The moon was blue.

"Oh yeah," He chuckled sadly to himself at the irony. "Just my luck."


End file.
